Langa and theSecret of Ubuntu

Visiting aCape Town Township

Tourists returning to visit South Africa after the World Cup have been very positive about the amazing diversity of treats on offer. The country's crime is an issue which still attracts plenty of news, all negative. There's no dispute that the worst crime takes place in the townships. A visit to the township of Langa shows there's another world in those over-populated and impoverished shanty towns, too.

The Legacy of Apartheid

The shameful history of the townships

What goes on backstage is the essence of the nation, the
driving force behind it. Most of the vital labour the country
needs to mine the diamonds and gold, harvest crops, serve
tourists, manicure white man's gardens or drive the trains and
buses, live in townships. These places are referred to locally
rather politely as 'informal settlements.' To our uninitiated
eyes they're just plain slums.

Having paid the money for an afternoon and night in the
townships with some trepidation, I wonder whether I'll be
pleasantly surprised or just mortified?

When the Nationalist Party's D.F Malan introduced the infamous
Groups Areas Act in 1950, the process of throwing the black
population out of the whites' cities began. Bulldozers simply
demolished row after row of their homes, shops, businesses and
schools. Places of worship remained untouched and still stand
there today, proud and solitary. In Cape Town, this area was and
still is known as District Six. In 2010, the year of the World
Cup, it remained empty and untroubled out of respect to its
troubled history.

The population fled eastwards from the city, persecuted and
on foot, carrying their paltry possessions to the Cape Flats
where they rebuilt their existence in the dust from the detritus
which surrounded them. They were forced to construct rudimentary
homes from drift wood, scrap metal and cardboard boxes.
Electricity and basic sanitation weren't an issue; they just
weren't. Langa was the first township, followed by Gugulethu and
then what is now the largest with an estimated population of a
million plus, Khayelitsha, ironically meaning 'new home.'

Sheep Searers

Precious explains the reason for our visit

And so it was that my friend Tim and I awaited the arrival of
Cape Photographer Peter Haarhoff for our afternoon photographers'
tour of the townships and overnight stay.

Peter's brand new Land-Rover is heavily branded and sports
many examples of his photos from brilliant white bride to proud
lion pride. Anonymity will not be the name of the game then. On
the way, we stop to collect his fixer. Her name is Precious. I
hope she is. She speaks several of the numerous local languages,
Xhosa, Sesotho, Zulu and Setswana. Her job is to keep the peace
and explain the reason for our visit, hopefully.

After a short briefing from Peter, we pull into Langa and pull
over. Thick acrid smoke blown haphazardly by the Cape Doctor (the
local name for the relentless south-easterly wind) envelops the
car. Sheep heads lie liberated in the mud. They call them
'smilies.' Local ladies incinerate the fleeces and the eyes are
boiled back to the socket. The tool is a simple metal strip which
glow when extracted from open fires.

They sizzle involuntarily in preparation for sale at R30 each,
about £3. Precious explains that we are here to take photos
and smoothes the waters. It's morbid. The sheep are beyond
suffering whilst the long-suffering sheep searers are genuinely
warm and endearing. The smell of burning hair is overpowering and
eventually, after a burst of useful tips from Peter we snap away
until driven back to the haven of the Land-Rover, unable to hold
our breath any longer.

Visiting one of the Shacks

Ubuntu, the unbreakable spirit

We move on around the shacks adorned with expensive cameras
and lenses and feeling anything but anonymous.

Over four in ten people here are jobless and seventy per cent
are HIV positive. But behind these stark statistics lies an
amazing attribute.

It's called Ubuntu.

In an African version of rock, paper and scissors, Ubuntu
would defeat despair and disease every time. Ubuntu means spirit.
Their saying goes 'a single straw of a broom can be broken
easily, but the straws together are not easily broken.' Fierce
adversity brings them together with a ferocity that is Ubuntu.
All the while, life expectancy is a generation less than ours in
Britain.

Peter clicks away while politely barking f-stop, aperture and
film speed advice to his pupils but I feel like an intruder. They
might be used to shots from a revolver here, but not from a
Canon.

We meander further to a shack where Cynthia leans studiously
into a window frame. We engage in conversation, chatting easily
despite her strong township African drawl.

She was born on 30th July 1966, the day England won
the World Cup and since then has had six kids, three of each and
is a Grandma several times over. She works as a cleaner in an
office in the city. Her monthly income is not much more than
£100. By the time she has paid for electricity for her
ancient TV and tiny fridge, bought paraffin to provide meagre
heat for her home and paid for her Golden Arrow bus to work, she
has less than a pound a day to feed the kids. Six days a week,
they eat mealie pap and sour milk. If they're lucky, they may
have enough for meat on Sundays, but fruit and vegetables never
bless their table.

She goes on. Her eldest son has just 'gone to the bush.' This
means that he, at 18, has left the township and now resides in a
field by the motorway under a plastic tarpaulin with dozens of
other teenagers. Here an unskilled nurse will perform a
circumcision on the poor fellow. This is his official Xhosa
coming of age. Dozens die from this operation every year as a
result of blood poisoning from poor hygiene. It is not permitted
in this culture to seek medical intervention if things take a
turn for the worse. If they do, their manhood is no longer
confirmed... let alone intact! Hence the unnecessary fatalities.
I had no idea. They remain there recovering for a couple of weeks
after the operation. Despite a feeling that this is brutal,
Cynthia is cool and explains that all her boys have been through
the process emerging unscathed.

Her husband is a gardener in Stellenbosch. He rises at 4 to
get to work at 7:30, returning in time for a late dinner and bed.
It's an existence. Hope is an aspiration, Ubuntu a drive.

I humbly volunteer Cynthia the equivalent of a few pounds and
she thanks me calling me 'Master.' I have learned so much from
her, especially humility. 'Bless you teacher,' is my response and
she laughs. What an amazing woman.

With so many struggling in vain to find employment, the
hapless hang around with little to do. Canon fodder and very
colourful they are too.

Peter hands them photos he took of them during his last visit
a month ago and they are visibly delighted with the results.
After posing for me, the victims invariably come running round
the back of the camera to examine the digital outcome. Toothy
smiles and belly-aching laughter follow. It's hard to imagine
greater hardship and yet a heartier bunch they could not be.

The Local Playground

Nothing could be further from my mind than crime

After a visit to the local sangoma, a sort of township GP
whose cures are all home-made from secret ingredients which would
be foreign to most of us, we stumble accidentally into a
playground. It's seen better days. There's a slide, a see-saw and
a roundabout. That's it. All are so rusty; it's amazing they
still attract the kids. It may be mid-winter here but the indigo
sky complements the 20 degree plus temperature and the youngsters
need to burn off their excess energy.

As soon as they see the cameras, they wave frantically
impeaching us to capture them. They ooze charm and not once do
any of them beseech us for free handouts. It's just not what I
expected. The reputation of drug gangs, violent crime and child
rape to name but a few of the heinous acts undertaken here, is no
invention. They are supported by statistics that make unpleasant
reading but right now, nothing could be further from my mind.

The only crime here is that of a relatively wealthy but
corrupted state being incapable of providing rudimentary
education, healthcare, shelter and a decent diet for decent
people. The World Cup footprints are still fresh in the dust, but
there is no evidence of a legacy here.

They happily take a break from their game of football, played
with a ball made from plastic supermarket bags and string, to
oblige my searching lenses.

The most infectious thing around here is their grins. And the
Ubuntu.

As our flash cards fill almost to capacity, the light which is
unique in Africa deserts us and, as all photographers know, makes
our hobby a sight trickier.

Vicky's B&B is a small success story in a place where
failure abounds. Peter takes us to our place of rest this
evening. It was started as a small enterprise in 1999 by Vicky
and her husband. This is my third visit in 10 years but the first
time I have parted with the R200 you pay for a bed, a hearty hot
(ish) chicken and pasta dinner and a simple breakfast. We wave a
fond farewell to Peter who has imparted so much useful
photographic knowledge to us this afternoon. He will return in
the morning for some sunrise photos.

As Tim and I sit there
enjoying the fruits of our afternoons labour as well as a glass
of red wine, we are invited to join Vicky and her team of young
and old for evening prayers.

We join in. It's the least we can do.

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